Broken
by a-human-oxymoron
Summary: Dean's time in Hell. Language and torture.


All Dean knew about the creature was that he hated it. He hated how, on the first day, when the creature had just _walked _ into _Hell_ and found the cell where he had been working, he had stopped torturing the poor bastard of a soul (who probably deserved some bad karma, sure, but not _this, _not Dean Winchester ripping the imaginary skin from his imaginary bones and laughing at the sickening screams that were ripped from it's imaginary throat because the pain didn't feel imaginary.) and stared at the intruder. He was tall, and when Dean first glanced up at him, he'd had to look away immediately.

When Dean worked the courage to look back up, he found it easier to let his eyes linger when he remembered that the pain wasn't really real, it just felt like that. So he squinted and blinked until the face of the intruder came into focus and stopped emitted the blinding white light that had caused him to look down in the first place.

It had turned its face away at some unknown voice and started running further down the rack and that was when Dean spotted the wings that hung off the creatures back, that slipped from pale grey into deepest black and all the shades in between. The first word that came to Dean's mind was _'angel_' but was soon overridden with vague memories of a tattered book and a sleek black car and a brother he had died for. He stopped thinking then, pushed the memories back where they had come from and assured himself that there was no such things as angels.

As he'd watched the retreating back, he felt sick and ugly and disgusting. He turned back to the soul that was strung up on the rack that still retained the form of the human it had once been and for the first time ever in almost a decade, he felt guilt creeping in from the corners and sobs tearing themselves from his chest.

That was how a demon found him, shoved into the corner of the cell with his arms wrapped around himself, trying to keep the pieces together so he didn't fall apart. The black eyed son-of-a-bitch had taken one look at him and laughed. He didn't stop laughing until he had sent the tortured soul that Dean had just left on the rack away to a different cell and turned back to the shaking heap in the corner.

"My, my Dean. Not as good as we thought you were, are you now? Alistair won't be very pleased, he worked extra hard on getting you to break." The demon smirked and grabbed Dean by the shoulder, forced him towards the vicious chains and shoved two metal hooks through each of his wrists so he was left there, strung up on the wall like a piece of meat.

"I'll be back soon, so just hang in there, boy." The bastard had laughed at his own joke and left the cell.

The next person Dean saw was Alistair (though he hardly deserved the term person), grinning like a maniac as he ran his hand over the torture instruments that Dean had been using before hand. He kept his back to Dean as he picked up a knife and held it up as though examining it in the light, simply to waste time, to keep Dean on edge until his attention started to waver so he could slash and rip at him when he wasn't expecting it.

"Dean, Dean, Dean." He flinced at the sound of his name dragged through the lips of the ugly creature before him. "I thought we agreed that if I put down the knife, you would pick it up."

Dean stayed silent, though Alistair wasn't looking for a reply. "Although, I'm glad to see you back on the rack. I'd almost forgotten how much _fun_ we had."

Alistair turned around then, and Dean could see the blatant lust in his eyes, the lust for pain and blood and screams. He held up the knife he had been nursing, letting Dean follow it's movements with his eyes, mark it's steady progress towards his face, try and prepare for the inevitable.

He felt the cool blade rip at the skin on his cheek, forcing blood to run down his face and drip steadily of of his chin. He closed his eyes and exhakled roughly through his nose thinking, _it's not real, none of this is real. It doesn't hurt, it doesn't hurt, itdoesn'thurtitdoesn'thurtitdoesn'thurtitdoesn'thu rt!_

But no matter how many times he repeats it inside his mind, he still feels the jagged pain as Alistair cuts and mangles his body, still hears the screams ripped from his own chest, still sees the ecstatic look on his torturers face as he watches Dean break.

The only thought going through Dean's mind was, _I don't want to become the next Alistair_.


End file.
